


So sweet, cool and so fair

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Ghost Connor, Halloween Gift Exchange, Hank served in WW2, Human AU, M/M, Sort Of, Unspecified year but vaguely noir, cole is still dead, gothic noir, mostly happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 09:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: Hank has lost more than most people do in a lifetime. He lost friends and blood while fighting Germans in France, and when he returned home he lost his son, his wife, and in the end his job.Now it's just him, and a car delivering grief, and a dead stranger with no name in a pine coffin.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82
Collections: Hankcon & Other Ships Halloween Exchange





	So sweet, cool and so fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/gifts).



> A late Halloween Exchange gift for Evelyn. I had this idea early on, and very quickly realised it deserved to be a longer story than I can commit to right now. But I was married to the idea, and so this is what you get - a sort of a condensed version of what should have been an epic gothic noir murder mystery.

Hank navigates the hearse down the hospital ramp with learned ease.

It’s late - dark, the streets empty of people. Hank prefers it this way - he doesn’t like the looks he gets, driving this car. People get awful skittish around death. Hank doesn’t blame them - after the war he’d thought he’d been done with death. Seen too many friends die and be forgotten, and he promised himself he’d forget them too, once he was back stateside. He didn’t want to bring that back to haunt him and Cole.

Then he’d lost Cole, too, and all Hank wanted to do was be close to death.

Jeffrey had been nice enough to get him this job after the department had let him go. It’s quiet. The hours are steady, and Hank doesn’t really have to talk to other people aside from when he’s picking up cargo or dropping it off.

Still, there are moments when it gets the best of him. The dark, lonely hours with no one as company except the dead. Moments when his imagination runs wild and his ears strain to hear even the smallest of sounds that don’t seem to belong.

Moments like this, when he turns his head to make sure there isn’t anyone lingering near the far corners of the hearse and he catches a glimpse of something pale in the rear-view mirror.

He whips his head back, staring into the back. A solid wooden transport coffin, lacking any finery, simply meant to provide a steady journey sits in the middle of the hearse bed, strapped down.

Not a single soul besides Hank.

He turns back to face the road again and takes the next turn carefully, keeping his eyes from glancing into the mirror.

Sometimes he thinks he can hear someone sigh. The rustle of clothes. He chalks it up to him being tired, or his nerves getting the best of him. Hank has always prided himself in being cool-headed - it served him well in the force, and in France during the war. It has served him well now, too, as he collects bodies from hospitals and or after the wakes and drives them to the funeral home, or, as now, to the crematory located outside the city.

But even the most cool-headed man glances over his shoulder now and then as he wheels a gurney down the hallways of an empty hospital morgue. When he shares the space with the third cadaver of the evening and there’s no warmth of the summer sun to keep the paranoia at bay.

Hank huffs and digs into his pocket for his flask. Just a small sip - to keep the tremors away.

He tucks the flask away and grabs his pack of cigarettes instead. One-handed he maneuvers one out, puts it between his lips, and flicks his lighter on.

“Hey, light me one too, will ya?”

Hank whirls around and yanks the steering wheel violently to the right with him. The hearse swerves, and Hank sees the ditch approach, and he over-corrects, and before he knows it the car comes to a stop sideways on the dark road.

He stares straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel. His cigarette has fallen somewhere at his feet, but he can smell it burn.

He can’t bring himself to look behind himself. He stares out into the fog-hazed dawn, at the rotting fence that separates the road from an overgrown weed field.

He’s suffered hallucinations before. In the war, he’d once spent so much time awake he started seeing people moving in the bushes. He’d almost fired his gun into the dark foliage.

He’s not tired now. He’s not even drunk.

He must be going crazy.

He closes his eyes and swallows, trying to take deep breaths.

When he opens his eyes there’s the reflection of a face, pale and waxy, in the windshield.

“Who are you?” Hank croaks.

The face moves - it leans over the front seats’ backrests, looming near, and then-

Hank watches as a man, slender and young, dressed in a suit, slips into the passenger seat.

“My name is Connor,” the man says, tipping his head to smile at Hank. “Nice to meet you.”

Hank stares at him, trying to make sense of what has just happened. There was no one in the back, no one in the car with him - except the body in the coffin.

Then the man - more of a boy, Hank thinks - turns his head a little more, and Hank’s heart plummets to his gut.

On the boy’s temple there is a hole, round and perfect, red and black with blood and gunpowder, with a glimpse of white bone.

Hank doesn’t scream. He fumbles behind himself for the door handle, pushing it open and crawling out backwards, nearly falling on his ass before he comes to a stop clinging to the rickety fence.

The car is empty, illuminated by the cabin light.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” says a voice from beside him. Hank nearly trips over his own feet as he turns around to face the kid, now standing beside him.

“I’m new at this,” the kid says, as though that explains everything.

The ghost whose name is Connor.

Hank can only gape at him.

“You picked me up at the hospital,” Connor says. Hank nods, trying to control his shaking.

“I woke up when you jostled me,” Connor says, sounding a little annoyed. “I think this would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t.”

“How’s that?” Hank manages to croak out. Out of all the things he wants to say or ask, this question comes out without his own volition.

“Well, there wasn’t much there, before,” Connor says. “So it would’ve been nice to remain that way. Now everything so… confusing. Why am I like this?”

Hank makes a vague gesture.

“I don’t know anything you don’t,” he says, feeling absurd. He’s losing it, he knows it.

“Do you know what happened to me?” Connor asks. Hank hesitates, then gestures at his temple. Connor frowns and moves towards the car, and Hank watches him lean into the mirror and then gingerly touches the side of his head.

“Oh,” Connor says, a sound so soft it hurts to hear. He turns to look at Hank.

“Did they catch who did this to me?”

“I assume it was a suicide,” Hank says carefully.

“I.. I don’t think I’d do that,” Connor says. “No, I wouldn’t have done that.” He moves closer to Hank, and Hank wants badly to back away.

“Is that what everyone thinks? The police? My friends? My family- oh, god, Richard,” Connor says, his voice cracking.

“I don’t know,” Hank says urgently. “I just drive the hearse, kid.”

“Can you help me?” Connor begs. “You’re the one who woke me up.”

Hank flounders, inching slowly towards the car. “I told ya,” he says. “I don’t know anything you don’t.”

He wants to get away from Connor. But can you outrun a hallucination?

Connor watches him, his expression reminding Hank of a puppy-dog. Connor has expressive brown eyes, so wide and innocent that for a moment Hank thinks of Cole, before shutting that thought down.

“Where were you taking me?” Connor asks finally, gesturing at the hearse.

“Crematory,” Hank mumbles. “No one claimed your body, so- the city’s paying for the cremation.”

“What do you mean no one claimed my body?” Connor asks, his voice suddenly strained. “I have family! My mother, my brother-”

“Maybe they don’t know,” Hank says, and then regrets it when he sees the stricken look on Connor’s face.

He doesn’t ask himself why he’s bothering to offer rationalisations to a figment of his deluded mind.

“They don’t know,” Connor says, so soft it’s barely a whisper. “Oh, god, they don’t know…”

He reaches for Hank, and before Hank can recoil Connor’s hands wrap around his arm. Through his clothes he can feel Connor’s touch - it’s cold like death. Hank stares in horror at the curl of Connor’s fingers around his biceps.

“You have to help me,” Connor says, his voice full of ache. “You have to help me tell them.”

“Tell them yourself,” Hank snaps, wrenching himself free. “Go haunt someone else!”

Connor freezes, staring at him. His mouth opens, and then closes, and Hank watches pearly white teeth sink into pale lips.

“I don’t think I can,” Connor says finally. “I don’t think- I think I have to stay with my body.”

Hank balks. “I’m not driving your fucking corpse around just so you can talk to your- actually, forget that, you’re not _real_! I’m going to drive you to the crematory and then find myself a damn doctor!”

He gets in the car and slams the door shut angrily, and then jumps when he sees Connor sitting in the passenger seat.

“You could check my tag,” Connor offers. “It’ll have my name and age. I’m Connor Stern, age 28.”

Hank doesn’t know the details of the body in the back. It’s not his job to know. The hospital checks the identification, and the crematory does too, but Hank simply delivers.

He sits in silence, gripping the steering wheel. From the corner of his eye he sees Connor watch him, like a challenge.

“Fine,” Hank snaps, opening the door and moving to the back of the hearse. He throws the doors open to see Connor perched on the coffin, making him recoil.

“Will you _stop_ doing that!” He growls, palm pressed to his sternum, as though to still his racing heart. Connor just gives him a bright grin and moves off the plain pine coffin so Hank can open it.

“God, I hope no one drives this way now,” Hank murmurs, pushing the lid aside. Just enough to expose the feet. He doesn’t want to see the face.

The tag is still there, wrapped around a socked foot. Hank sees the black pant legs, and thinks it’s a wild coincidence his mind conjured up a ghost wearing the same clothes as the dead man in the coffin had been brought to the hospital in.

Hank hadn’t looked at the tag when he’d loaded the coffin into the car. He’d just signed the paperwork. He takes the tag between his fingers and flips it so he can read it.

“John Doe,” he says out loud.

The look on Connor’s face would be amusing if the whole situation wasn’t a sign of Hank losing his mind.

“So look at me!” Connor yells. “Look, it’s _me_ ”, he demands, his voice broken and swelling with panic, and he kicks at the coffin in anger.

The lid falls off and there, in the dim morning light, he lies. His face white and blue. A bullet hole in his head.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank whispers, sagging back against the door.

Connor stares at the corpse - his corpse. There’s a slackened look on his face as he looks at his own body, one of shock and fear.

“Close it,” Connor croaks, climbing out of the back agilely and walking to the edge of the road. Hank watches him wrap his arms around himself, his shoulders hunched.

He closes the coffin, covering Connor in darkness. He shuts the door and leans against it, eyes squeezed closed.

What the fuck is going on?

“I’ve gone insane,” he murmurs.

“How do you think _I_ feel,” Connor says, and Hank looks towards him. The kid looks miserable - small. Scared. Hank feels sorry for him.

“You have to help me fix this,” Connor says, moving closer. “There has to be a way to fix this.”

Hank worries his lip, a resigned sadness growing inside him. He shakes his head.

“I don’t think anything can fix this,” he says gently. “If this is really real, then nothing short of a miracle can make this alright for you.”

Connor stares at him, his brown eyes gone a little glassy. Hank watches the tears well and then roll down Connor’s cheeks.

He doesn’t really decide to do it - his arms reach out without any input from him, grasp Connor’s stiff, cold shoulders, and pull him close.

Connor’s fingers grip Hank’s jacket and he feels the press of Connor’s face against his throat. He feels the heaving of Connor’s chest, can hear the weak sobs, and they’re as clear as the lack of a breath of air against his skin. Where Connor’s mouth is there are no warm puffs of air. It’s eerie.

They remain like that for what feels like forever. Hank holds Connor and Connor cries, until he seems to get tired of it and slowly pulls away from Hank’s embrace. He looks even more tired now. His lashes are wet, making his eyes seem even darker.

“Can you take me home?” Connor asks softly. “I’d like to see my mother and brother.”

Hank hesitates.

“I kinda have to get somewhere,” he says, gesturing at the car. “I can’t just drive around with a body in the back.”

“My body,” Connor says a little sharply.

“That’s not really gonna help when my boss asks why it took me so long to get it- _you_ to the crematory,” Hank says, feeling a little annoyed now. “What am I going to say? ‘No worries, the dead guy said it’s okay.’?”

“Shouldn’t I have a say?” Connor insists. “It’s _my_ body!”

“Well, there aren’t exactly rules for this,” Hank snaps. “It’s not like you’ll be needing it anymore!”

He regrets his words when Connor flinches and looks away from him.

“Sorry,” Hank murmurs. Connor shrugs.

“What if I can only go where my body goes,” Connor says eventually. “If you take me there I won’t be able to go see my family. What if they burn me and I disappear?”

Hank looks at him, at the wide-worried look in his eyes. That damn puppy-dog look.

“Goddamnit,” he growls, throwing his hands up. “Fine, you get one last ride, and then I want to wash my hands clean of this.”

“Thank you!” Connor cries out, throwing himself at Hank and wrapping him in a tight hug.

Hank feels his own cheeks heat up a little, but he wraps an arm around Connor’s waist and gives him a reassuring squeeze.

Sitting in a car with a stranger is awkward even at the best of times. Sitting in a car with a dead stranger is Hank’s personal idea of Hell.

“What’s your name?” Connor asks. He sounds good-humoured for a ghost. Or whatever he is.

“Hank,” Hank says, after a brief moment of hesitation. “Just Hank.”

“Okay, just Hank,” Connor smiles. “What do you do when you’re not being haunted.”

Hank laughs despite himself. He doesn’t have much of a choice. “Not much. Drink. Read. I’ve got a dog who keeps me getting up in the morning.”

Connor smiles. “I always wanted a dog. Guess it’s too late now.”

Hank glances at him. There’s an almost sad smile on the kid’s face now. He looks peaceful. If it was Hank, he’d be raging and screaming against the injustice.

Dead at 28, Hank thinks.

Still. More than what Cole ever got.

As though reading his mind, Connor says, “No family? Kids?”

The words seem to tumble out of Hank’s mouth of their own volition. Things he never tells anyone, too painful to speak of.

But who can you tell, if not the dead boy sitting next to you?

“I had a son. Cole,” Hank says quietly. “He died a few years ago, in a car wreck.”

“Oh,” Connor breathes. “I’m sorry.”

“Funny thing is - now that you’re here, I can’t help but wonder if he’s out there somewhere too,” Hank muses. “Not sure what I’d prefer.”

It’s a terrifying thought. His son, somewhere out there, latched onto some stranger for comfort. Someone who isn’t Hank. Would he have wanted to visit Hank? To visit his mother? Maybe he has? Has his son seen him, passed out with a bottle of Black Lamb?

The thought makes his stomach turn, and he clenches the steering wheel tighter.

“Are you alright?” Connor asks, his voice tender.

Hank swallows, nodding.

“I don’t… talk about it much… Talk about him.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe you’d feel better. We should talk about the people we love.”

Hank clenches his jaw, trying to hold back the choking sensation that wells inside him.

“Easier to just be quiet,” he says eventually. his voice is hoarse - but his cheeks are dry.

“Is that why you do… this?” Connor asks, gesturing vaguely.

“I guess. Used to be a cop, but you see too much shit. Saw enough shit during the war.”

He can feel the weight of Connor’s dark gaze on him, heavy and cool, just like his touch.

“I was too young to go,” Connor says, a touch of sadness in his voice. “Our neighbour went - he wasn’t really the same after he got back.”

“No one was,” Hank grunts.

“Did you never see-” Connor starts and then stops. He seems to be weighing his words carefully.

“Did you see anyone like me? I just mean - so many dead, surely-”

“Never,” Hank says sharply. It’s the last thing he’d have needed, back then. The spectres of his friends, brothers in arm, with their sunken faces and bruised bodies.

“I’ve never lost anyone, you know,” Connor murmurs. Hank has to strain his ears to hear him over the sound of the engine and the road under the tires. “Not that I’d remember, that is. It’s always just been me, Richard, and Amanda.”

“She your mother?” Hank asks. Connor nods. His fingers are drawing patterns on the fabric of his trousers. In the dark car the pallor of his skin looks less deathly. Almost looks like he could be alive.

“Yeah. This is going to break her heart.”

It is, Hank thinks. He stays quiet though. But it’s easy to reach over the and cover Connor’s fidgeting hand with his own.

Connor gives him a grateful smile.

“I still want more proof I’ve not just gone insane,” Hank says as they head towards the suburbs where Connor says his family lives.

“Do crazy people usually worry this much about what they’re seeing?” Connor asks. “If you know what’s happening is crazy, can you even be crazy?”

“You’re giving me a headache,” Hank grumbles. Connor laughs, a surprisingly sweet sound from a dead man.

“I could tell you my life story, if you want,” Connor says. “But you’ll see - when we arrive at my mother’s house you’ll know everything I’ve said is true. Things you have no way of knowing.”

He pauses, hesitating.

“And if my brother is home, you’ll know for sure. Just try to not have a heart-attack.”

“And why’s that?” Hank asks, giving Connor a suspicious look.

“We are twins.”

The house Connor claims his family lives in is modest. A tidy little suburbian home - not too unlike the one Hank had lived in, with his wife, with Cole. The windows are dark but the house looks inviting.

Nailed to the door is a stylish brass plaque with the name “Stern” carved into it. Hank feels shivers travel down his spine.

It takes him a moment to realise Connor isn’t by his side. He turns around to see the kid standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Hank, looking scared.

“Go on,” Hank says gently. “It’ll be alright.”

Connor shakes his head.

“I don’t think I can do it,” he says, his voice small. “I don’t- how can I watch you -”

Hank sighs, nodding. He knows first-hand what it’s like. He’s been on both sides of breaking the news. The parent. And the cop.

“You can wait here,” he offers. “I’ll talk to them, and then-” he hesitates. Is this a good idea after all? “Maybe you shouldn’t see them,” he says carefully. “What good will it do?”

“It’s the least I can do,” Connor says softly. “Will you please do it?”

Hank closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He’d hoped he’d never have to do this again.

Connor watches him ring the doorbell. It takes a few rings, and then a light upstairs turns on.

“Oh,” Connor says softly. “It’s my brother.”

So it is. That same pale face, though lacking the death-pallor that Connor has. The eyes are a pale shade of grey though, so different from Connor’s that it leaves Hank reeling. Hank stares, and Connor’s brother glares at him from the door crack.

“Can I help you?” He asks, voice hostile. Suspicious.

Hank clears his throat, schooling his expression into something more formal.

“I’m- ah. My name is Lieutenant Anderson, I’m with the Detroit police department,” he says, the lie so easy, so close to the truth.

He doesn’t need to say more. Richard’s face turns ashen, a look of terror falling over his features. Hank has seen it on so many people, worried spouses and parents, family members who have been frantic for days because of a missing loved one.

“Connor,” RIchard croaks, pushing the door open. “Come in, I have to go wake up our mother;” he says weakly.

The house is tidy. It’s not opulent or even fashionable, but it’s furnished with taste. Hank hovers in the foyer, wishing he had something to hold. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

He tries not to show his surprise when Richard returns with their mother. Connor hadn’t mentioned being adopted, but there’s little room for doubt as she stands next to her son, her skin so dark and his so pale.

Mrs Stern is a woman who radiates pride, and Hank can tell from the cold look she gives him that she has no trust for him. Why would she? A black woman with two white children inhabiting the suburbia - Hank knows the kind of treatment often follows. Knows the attitudes his former colleagues would have. He gestures at a chair.

“Please, M’am, take a seat. Did your son tell you why I’m here?”

“No,” she says, her chin turned up. Defiant. “But I’m not a fool. Where is Connor?”

“I’m sorry,” Hank says gently, and he sees Mrs Stern’s lip tremble before she seems to control her reaction.

“How?” She asks, voice like stone.

“We believe it was a homicide,” Hank says. The role fits him so easy. “Was Connor in any trouble..?”

“Absolutely not,” Amanda says adamantly. “Connor is a- he was a good boy, he knew better than get mixed up in anything that would- that would get him-”

She falls silent and turns her head away. Hank can see the glimmer of tears on her cheeks.

When he glances at Richard though he sees the shame written on his face. Richard looks away, and Hank doesn’t press. Not yet.

“Can I see him?” Mrs Stern asks. She’s looking out the window, but Hank doubts she’s seeing anything. He remembers this moment too well. He can still feel the absolute hollowness that had descended on him when Cole died.

“I wouldn’t advice that,” Hank says evasively. He needs to get rid of Connor’s body, but he knows Connor’s family will want to give him a proper burial.

He realises he’s going to lose his job tonight.

In the grand scheme of things, in the light of what has been revealed to him tonight, it doesn’t seem to matter so much.

“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Hank lies, moving towards the door. “Unfortunately there’s not much I can tell you at this time, but I promise I’ll keep you up to date.” He feels a little sick with his lies. He’ll have to call Jeffrey tomorrow and try to explain this somehow. Get someone to look into this. It’s the least he can do.

Mrs Stern doesn’t look at him as he leaves. Richard follows him out though, and Hank uses the moment to his advantage.

“You looked like there was something you wanted to say in there,” he says casually. He doesn’t want to sound accusing - he wants Richard to open up, not get defensive.

Richard wrings his hands, looking anywhere but at Hank.

“Why did you ask if Connor was in any trouble?” He finally asks. The look he gives Hank is nothing short of pleading. Pleading for what?

“The manner he died gives me reason to believe he was mixed up with a bad lot,” Hank says. “Do you know anything about that?”

It would be odd for Connor to not have mentioned an obvious criminal connection - then again Hank hardly knows him. Up until a few hours ago he’d been convinced Connor didn’t exist.

“How did he die?” Richard asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Hank hesitates, but then decides they deserve to know. And it might help them figure out who killed Connor.

“He was shot,” Hank says, tapping his temple once. “It would have been fast.”

“Oh,” Richard breathes. He hugs his arms around himself, and he looks so much like Connor that it’s unsettling to see.

Hank sees movement from the corner of his eye and turns his head slightly. Connor moves closer to them, tentative and silent.

“You two must have been close,” Hank says kindly. Richard nods, still not meeting Hank’s eye.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without him,” Richard murmurs. “He was only older than me by a few minutes, but he always treated me like his little brother. Looked out for me, you know?”

Hank nods. He puts a hand on Richard’s shoulder and guides him down the steps and gestures for him to sit down.

Connor comes to stand by them. Hank steals a glance at him, his heart constricting at the sight of Connor’s face. There’s agony there, and loss.

“I’m going to miss him so much,” Richard says, his voice thick with unshed tears. He turns his face away, just like Amanda had done.

“I’m sure he knows,” Hank says. “It sounds like you two loved each other very much.”

Richard lets out a shuddering sigh, leaning down to press his brow to his knees.

“You have to help him,” Connor says softly. “Please, tell him I’m alright. Hank…”

But Hank can’t. As far as Richard knows Hank doesn’t know Connor, and there isn’t a way to explain things without being locked up in an insane asylum.

But there is something Hank can say.

“I know what it’s like, to lose someone you love that much. To lose family, your own flesh and blood,” he says, sitting down next to Richard. “I know how much it hurts, and how you feel like you’ve lost a chunk of yourself.”

Richard sobs. In front of him Connor falls to his knees and lays his hand on Richard’s head.

“Only thing you can do is keep your brother with you,” Hank says. “Remember who he was and the things he did. Remember how much you love him. All the good things, even when it hurts. You think you can do that?”

Richard sits up, wiping furiously at his cheeks. He looks up at the night sky, unseeing of the figure of his dead brother in front of him.

“Everyone loved him,” he whispers. “He was one of those people who- he was curious about everything and everyone, and sometimes he was a kind of brat, but even then it was always kinda endearing.”

The two brothers laugh simultaneously. Hank watches Connor, sees the wetness on his cheeks that mirror Richard’s.

“He liked reading, and he loved dogs, even though our mother wouldn’t get us one. He always talked about getting one, after he moved out, and now-”

Richard seems to run out of air. He lets out a wounded sound, one that grips Hank’s heart in a vice.

“It’s my fault,” Richard gasps, voice strained with pain.

Hank sits up, glancing at Connor who doesn’t seem to have heard. He’s stroking Richard’s hair, a comfort Richard can’t sense.

“How do you mean?”

“I think they meant to kill me.”

“No,” Connor whispers then, face jerking up to look at Richard.

“It wasn’t supposed to go that far,” Richard says, turning towards Hank. “I was just doing some favours for a friend- he said I could make a lot of money, and I wanted to help my family - the house is so expensive, but it would kill my mother to have to move, she worked so hard-”

Hank lets Richard ramble - he can’t look away from the way Connor is looking at him, his face twisted in anguish.

“Richard, what did you do?” Connor whispers.

Richard sobs, draws in a trembling breath.

“So I thought, what’s the harm, right? Keep a lookout on a few nights, get my share. Drive some people around, how was I supposed to know-”

Hank closes his eyes and mouths a curse. How could the kid have been so naive?

“When I told them I didn’t want to do that stuff anymore, they made a whole thing out of it,” Richard weeps. “Said I can’t just walk away, and I didn’t know what to do, and I was going to ask Connor about it, but then he went missing-”

The tail of the word collapses into a wounded wail, Richard burying his face in his hands.

Hank exhales through his nose, his jaw clenched tight. Connor has wrapped himself around Richard, a cold embrace that his twin is oblivious to.

“They must’ve gotten to Connor and thought it was me,” Richard says softly. Hank agrees in silence.

“It’s okay,” Connor whispers, his mouth pressed to Richard’s ear. “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

“Mother will hate me,” Richard says softly. “It’s my fault, I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“No one ever does,” Hank sighs. He stands up, gazing down at Richard and Connor.

“Do you know who the people you were working for were?”

Richard shakes his head. “My friend was the one who organised everything. I know a little bit - I’d recognise them, but I’m not sure about the names.”

Hank turns to look at the hearse that’s waiting for him a few streets away.

“You should call the police,” he says, feeling drained. He wants to go home and sleep. Pretend none of this really happened. Just a bad dream.

“You’re the police,” Richard says, confusion mixing with the tears.

“No,” Hank says, giving him a look over his shoulder. “I’m-” he pauses. What the hell is he supposed to say.

“I’m a private contractor,” he says eventually.

“Like a private detective?” Richard ask, sniffling.

“Sort of. You should call the Detroit police tomorrow morning,” Hank tells him. “Tell them everything you know. Whoever did this to your brother deserves justice.”

“I did it to him,” Richard says quietly.

“Stop it,” Connor snaps. “Stop it!”

“It wasn’t your doing,” Hank sighs. “Just whoever pulled the trigger.”

It’s not easy to walk away from the crying kid, but there’s nothing Hank can do here. He can’t stand the grief. It’s one thing to drive cadavers around and never have to see their families. Death Hank can handle. Just not grief. Not anymore.

He gets in the car and turns to Connor who’s staring blankly at the windshield.

“Was it worth it?” Hank asks.

Connor shakes his head, tight-lipped.

“Just… take me to the crematory,” he says finally. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Hank watches him for a moment, but Connor doesn’t acknowledge him further. Finally he sighs and starts the car, and in silence they begin Connor’s final drive.

The sun begins to rise as they reach the outskirts of Detroit. It paints the roads gold and pink, a beautiful start to a new day.

Hank parks outside the crematory. It’s still quiet here, empty. They have a little time before the staff arrives, before Hank has to come up with a lie about why he’s several hours late delivering the remains. They sit and talk, and Hank is starting to realise that there’s something special about Connor. Something beyond the extraordinary circumstances of their meeting. Something that maybe reminds Hank a little of himself when he was younger, but even softer. Even brighter.

“What do you think it’ll be like?” Connor asks, watching the sun rise above the horizon.

“Quiet, I hope,” Hank says. “The long sleep.”

Connor huffs out what could be a laugh. He leans back in his seat and turns his face towards Hank. There’s a smile playing on his lips. If not for the bullet hole he would almost look sweet.

Hank thinks that for one night he might have had a friend.

Another thing for him to say goodbye to.

A car pulls in and Connor sits up. Hank tries to brush away the tightness in his chest, the feeling that he’s missing something big here.

There’s something he’s kept hidden from the world for his whole life. He thinks this could’ve been his chance to tell someone.

He makes up a lie about a busted tyre to the man on morning shift. He’s not paid to care. Hank gives him Connor’s family’s name and address. Claims a clerical error.

They deserve to get to say goodbye to Connor properly. Connor deserves a grave with a name, and flowers, and people to come and remember him.

Connor watches in silence as they unload his body and wheel it into the building.

Hank feels like he should hug the kid. Wish him luck, maybe, Instead he just stands with his hands in his pockets, and Connor watches him with his head cocked to one side.

“Maybe I’ll see you again, one day,” Connor says, tugging at his cuffs. A nervous tick.

Hank wonders how many other small idiosyncrasies of Connor’s he’ll never know, and he’s flooded by grief. Again and again he finds himself with too little time.

“One day,” he says. With one last smile he walks away from Connor. When he gets in his car and looks up, Connor is gone.

He doesn’t feel like drinking. He nurses his whiskey and listens to the radio, not truly paying attention to anything. He thinks of Connor and his sweet smile, of the odd purity he had despite being dead.

He wonders how Richard is doing. If he called the police.

He hopes the crematory worker contacted Connor’s mother.

It’s not even noon when Hank finally goes to bed. The night shifts are hard on him, but it’s easier than being around people all day.

He wakes up to someone shaking him violently.

“Hank! Hank, wake up, please!”

Hank blinks groggily and then jolts up.

Connor stares at him with those wide brown eyes, face full of alarm. For a short moment Hank thinks he’s still dreaming, and then he seems to catch up with reality.

“Connor? What the fuck are you still doing here?” Hank croaks, rubbing a hand across his face.

“It’s Richard,” Connor says, gripping Hank’s shoulders. “Something’s wrong, I can feel it. I need your help!”

It has to be a nightmare. There’s a dead man in his shitty apartment, on his shitty bed, staring at him like Hank’s the only man in the world who can fix things.

“Fuck,” Hank groans, and pushes himself up, reaching for some clothes.

“Hey, do you mind?” He snaps when he catches Connor staring. He swears if Connor was alive he’d blush, the way he darts his gaze away from Hank’s half-naked, sleep-rumpled form.

It makes Hank’s thoughts stutter.

They manage to get out of the building and into Hank’s rusting car. The one he drove before the accident - a nice, safe family car, one he could afford on his Lieutenant’s wages - had been totalled in the crash. This one gets him where he needs to be, more often than not.

Sometimes to places where he really doesn’t want to be.

The lights at Connor’s family’s house are on, the sun having just set beyond the city skyline.

“Let’s just see what’s going on first before we start panicking, hm?” Hank says, trying to calm Connor down. The kid looks like a nervous wreck, staying near Hank but seemingly only barely managing to avoid latching onto him.

Hank doesn’t have to knock. The front door is ajar.

“Oh, no,” Connor says softly, following Hank inside. They can hear soft voices from somewhere, and Connor rushes forwards. Hank almost hisses at him to stay back before he realises only he can see Connor. It’s an advantage that feels like a god-send right now.

“Hank! They’ve got a gun, they’ve shot Richard!” Hank hears Connor cry out. It startles him, but not enough to make him expose himself.

He doesn’t have a gun. He’d thrown his revolver in the river two months ago, when he’d drank a bottle of cheap whisky and ended up one chamber away from blowing his head off.

There’s a statue on a side table that he grabs, weighing it in his hand. It’s heavy, made of sturdy metal. He wishes Connor would come back - Hank would like to know how many men are waiting in the next room.

He knows he has to be quick. There’s a good chance whoever’s in there will see him the moment he steps in. He has to be ready to swing, and hope he hits his target.

Gripping the statue with both hands Hank draws in a deep breath, and rounds the corner with one long stride. He spots the figure of a man in front of him, a glimpse of another one further in the room.

He brings the statue down in a wide sweep, hitting the first man with a sickening thud. The statue falls to the ground and Hank throws himself at the second man, dreadfully aware of the gun in the man’s hand.

They fall to the floor and the gun goes off, making Hank’s ears ring, and for a fraction of a moment Hank is twenty years younger and standing on a foreign beach. Then he hears Connor shout, and the muffled moans of a woman somewhere, and he jolts to action and he doesn’t stop. He hits the man once, twice, his meaty fist hitting something that gives way, and then grabs the man’s shoulders and slams him against the floor.

Only then does the man let go, slumping down in a slackened heap.

Hank squats over him, panting hard. He’s reeling, his thoughts racing.

“Richard, please,” he hears Connor whisper, and it pulls him out of the battle-fog. And then he sees Amanda in the corner, tied up, a wound on her brow trickling blood.

She’s not even looking at him. She’s staring mutely at where her two sons are, her eyes blown wide. She barely acknowledges Hank when he undoes her ligatures and gag; she pushes past him to where Richard is laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, his breathing shallow and rattling.

Hank can hear sirens in the far distance. A neighbour must’ve called the police when the first shot had been fired.

“It’ll be okay,” Hank rasps, kneeling down by Richard and placing his palm firmly on Richard’s abdomen. The blood is slick and hot against his skin. Richard’s pale eyes flicker down to glance at him, and then to Connor. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, just a gurgle of air.

“Please,” Connor says. Hank looks at him. He’s never felt this helpless - not even when Cole had died. Not even during the war. Then he’d been full of action. Trying to save what could be saved. Hauling the wounded, keeping others calm, or protecting others.

He remembers pulling Cole out of the wreck, applying first aid, barking orders to people who’d stopped to help.

Here he can’t do anything. The blood flows, and help is on the way, but for now Hank is useless. And he sees in Connor’s eyes that Connor is beginning to understand that too. All of that endless trust trickles out, replaced by hopeless agony.

“I won’t let them take you both,” Amanda says, her voice hard as steel. “I won’t let them.”

Connor stares at her, and she meets his gaze calmly.

“My sweet boy,” she whispers.

“Mom,” Connor says, his voice twisted with agony. “Mom.”

“Tell your brother I need him to stay,” Amanda says firmly, through the tears that are beginning to flow down her cheeks. “You tell that boy.”

“He won’t listen,” Connor sobs. “He says it’s his fault.”

There’s a flash of something then, a current that makes Hank recoil, that sends Amanda falling back like struck - a sudden wave of something so strong it feels like pain, like the impact of a pickup truck slamming into a reliable family car driving along a highway.

Hank watches Richard’s hand curl around Connor’s pale wrist and pull, pull, until they’re almost like one - until they are one.

Until the grey of Richard’s eyes warms to a dark brown, and the smooth skin of his temple gains a indent the size of a bullet.

“Connor,” Amanda chokes, throwing herself at her son. Hank is shaking, feeling faint, but again he reaches out and presses his hands to Connor’s abdomen. The blood flows slower now, Connor’s breathing a little steadier than Richard’s had been.

“I never could have,” Amanda says suddenly, and Hank looks up to see her staring at thin air. He feels cold all of a sudden, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

“I love you both equally,” Amanda says, her tone pleading. Then; “I know.”

The silence that follows is marred by the sound of the sirens slashing through the quiet suburban night. The ambulance drivers burst in, followed by two officers, and Hank can breathe again.

Hank has always hated hospitals. He hates the smells and the sounds and the noises. It was worse when he got shot in France. There was more screaming. You couldn’t smell the antiseptics over the iron stench of blood.

Connor’s room is quiet. He’s lucky to not have to share, for now. He’s still pale, but growing stronger by the day. Hank keeps him company. He’s given up his job. He’s not sure what he’ll do now - maybe he’ll try that private eye thing. Maybe he could help someone with that.

It’s a relief to not have to say goodbye to Connor after all. It’s been a long time since Hank has let anyone close, but Connor seems to fit easily. Despite the decades between them Connor is a good listener - and there are things he seems more willing to talk about now that he’s returned to the land of the living.

Hank promises to introduce him to Sumo, and the smile that gets from Connor is like seeing the sun for the first time after a storm.

There’s a part of Hank he’s kept secret for his whole life. One that could easily destroy him whole if revealed to the world. He thinks maybe in another time it wouldn’t be so, but then again, he tries not to worry over things he can’t change.

When Connor curls his fingers into his lapel and pulls him close, when he seals his soft mouth over Hank’s, Hank is overcome with a blinding clarity - that he has reached a point where he has nothing left to lose. Only something to gain.

**Author's Note:**

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